First Tomato

I saw a meme on social media that said, “Growing your own tomatoes is the best way to devote three months of your life to saving $2.17.”

Over the past ten years or so, I’ve developed a bit of a green thumb. What started off as just a few houseplants eventually grew into a sunroom full of traditionally outdoor plants. When we moved from our rental to our current home, which has a beautiful back porch but no sunroom, the greenery crept outside. Now, it fills an in-ground flower bed in the front, along with raised beds, multiple flowerpots, and a tiered vertical planter in the back.

While I’ve tried growing vegetables a few times, I haven’t been very successful. But this year, I was wandering through the greenhouse of a local nursery, and on a whim, I bought three small cherry tomato plants. I brought them home, planted two in one of the raised beds, and placed the third in a large planter. After a little research, I added some marigolds and basil as companion plants.

I bought my plants a little late in the season, so it wasn’t long before I saw my first flowers. Pretty soon, there was a tiny green tomato.

Every day, I dragged out the hose to make sure my tomatoes had plenty of water. I pruned the suckers between the main stem and the branches. I fertilized the soil. I picked off the dead leaves. I shooed away the pests. Eventually, the color changed from green to a pale blush, then deepened to a vibrant red. It was finally ready for me to pick.

When I brought in my plentiful bounty of one, I was way more excited than anyone in my family. I tried to explain the joy of growing something from scratch. I talked about the daily care, the anticipation, the tiny miracle of it all. But they mostly just nodded and smiled. It was, after all, just one tomato.

It can be like that with teaching, too. You can put so much time and effort into working with a child. And when you celebrate the child’s successes, big or small, those around you nod and smile, not giving you the feedback that you anticipated.

But you keep working with the child.

Because you know that growth isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always come with applause or gold stars. Sometimes, it shows up subtly, like a quiet breakthrough, a shift in confidence, or a single moment of connection.

And those moments? They matter. Not everyone notices, but you do.

So you keep showing up. You keep tending, guiding, and believing.

Maybe it did take three months and more than $2.17 to grow that tomato. But like teaching, it was never about the cost. It was about the miracle of growth—the kind that unfolds slowly, quietly, and often without recognition. And knowing that you played a part? That’s just as sweet as that first tomato.

(Image Credit: Canva AI Generator)